


A Rock in the Left

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Frank Underwood has taught Catherine Durant many lessons. And she's learned them well...better than he realizes.





	A Rock in the Left

**Author's Note:**

> So…I actually have been playing around with this piece since season two—and now that season three is upon us, I feel the need to throw this out there as my pre-season prediction. I actually really, really hope something along these lines actually does happen. Durant's got the strongest moral compass on the show—I wish we'd get to explore just how this whole alliance is affecting her.

The steady pulse of Catherine Durant's heels keep time with the rapid beating of her heart, muffled by the thick carpet of the West Wing, though still consistent and constant. She briefly wonders (not for the first time) how many times she has made this journey, down the hall to the Oval Office—dozens, hundreds, thousands?

Of course, that isn't the important question. The important question is how many  _more_  times she will make this journey.

She isn't stupid, not by half. She's been smart enough to stay on Frank Underwood's good side, but she also knows that she's stayed off his radar simply because she's never dared to even breathe in opposition to his will.

There was fear in that action, she knew. But she also knew there were something deeper than fear driving her. If she'd made any attempt to hold him back, any signs that she even considered disagreeing with his plans, she knew that he would've taken her out, with the same ruthless efficiency that had removed Kern, Matthews, Tusk, and Walker.

Not that she can prove any of that, mind you. Cathy Durant has been around the Capitol long enough to know how true power games are played—behind the scenes, beneath layers of false-positives and go-betweens and people who spend their lives covering the tracks of the more powerful people, shrouded in smiles and handshakes and seemingly-innocent dinner conversations. And if she knows the game, you can be damn sure that Frank Underwood has perfected it.

_Cathy, if you don't like how the table is set, turn over the table._

Frank Underwood perfected the game, and then he destroyed all the other players. And amidst all the destruction, he left the one piece standing that could still end the game—Catherine Durant. And she's come to realize that she does not like the current table setting.

Well, it isn't the way the table was set. It was  _how_.

She isn't a squeamish person by nature—you can't be, not in Washington (or at least not if you want to  _last_  in Washington, as she's done for the past three decades). But at a certain point, even she had to step back and count the bodies around them, silently weighing the blood shed against the blood spared.

Frank had crossed a line. He'd made things personal, when they shouldn't have been. Through it all, he'd been able to appeal to Catherine's sense of patriotism, her sense of justice and duty and public servitude. Even though she'd balked at the idea of taking down a President, eventually she'd agreed that Walker wasn't strong enough to handle the task at hand. She'd acted out of pragmatism, surveying the situation with the cool, clinical gaze of a surgeon who had found a tumor—it was a necessary step, and though it wouldn't be comfortable, the end would justify the means. She was one of the few people with the position and power to make such a thing happen—and with great power comes great responsibility, as the saying goes. It was her  _duty_  to remove an ineffective President (that's what he was, a President, not  _Garrett Walker_ , not a person, she couldn't see him as that, she had to be as detached as possible), and she couldn't refuse the call, no matter how much she wanted to.

But in the end, she'd realized that Frank's quest was for some kind of twisted personal vengeance, not a desire to ensure that his nation was in safe (albeit bloody) hands. And  _that_  was the line that she couldn't cross.

_Shake with your right hand, but hold a rock in your left._ He'd taught her that, too. And she'd taken that lesson to heart. She'd held his hand through some dark deeds, she'd kept his back covered as they'd pushed through the unknown wilds of forcing a President of the United States into resignation, but she'd never forgotten the man with whom she was dealing. She'd slowly begun picking up little pebbles along the way, like some reverse version of Gretel, quietly storing away dates and times and confessions like pieces of her own salvation. She'd been as surreptitious as possible about it, hoping and praying that Frank wouldn't catch on—and for now, it seems as though her plan has worked.

She doesn't have a big rock in her left hand—but she has a bag full of smaller ones, and that's a better weapon than nothing at all. It's been a long time since she's had to pull off a fight like this, but it hasn't been so long that she's forgotten how to use her teeth and her talons. She honestly isn't sure that she'll win, but in a way, she doesn't have to.

She just has to draw blood. The sharks will come on their own.

"Good morning, Madame Secretary," the receptionist outside the Oval Office (Marianne, same name as Cathy's little sister) offers a cheerful smile.

"Good morning," Catherine returns with equal warmth. "Is he ready for me?"

"Yeah, go on in."

With one last deep breath to steel herself, she blows through the door with her usual air of importance.

"Good morning, Mr. President."

He looks up from his desk (he always sits behind his desk, like a king on his throne, always keeps it between himself and whoever else is in the room, like some kind of shield), and though he doesn't smile, she can tell that he's relieved to see her, "Morning, Cathy."

She sits in her usual spot, her green eyes sizing him up, trying to read his body language, her mind running its now-familiar mantra ( _please don't see it, please don't know, not yet, not today, not now, please don't see it…not yet, not today…_ ).

He finishes whatever he's working on, tucks it away in a folder, then sits back, offering an open, easy smile that is natural yet insincere.

He doesn't know. Not yet.

Her heart slows its pace slightly, and she remembers how to breathe again. She's safe, for now (though she knows she'll never truly be safe, not even after she deposes this man who has besmirched and abused the Constitution and its principles for his own personal gains).

Safe, but not out of the woods. She still has to play her part, as wearying as it can be at times. She reminds herself that this is for the good of the country. This is her duty. This is her destiny.

So she'll smile with her mouth and watch with her eyes and keep careful track with her mind. Her grip will tighten in readiness around that proverbial rock, and when the moment finally comes, she will not hesitate to strike. Still, she finds herself filling with self-loathing at how easily she plays the role of friend and confidant, at how well she's suited for the part of co-conspirator.

_Soon_ , she promises herself. Soon she can throw off this disguise. Soon she can look into Frank Underwood's eyes and defiantly declare that she'd never been his ally, merely a smarter foe than all the rest. Soon she'll release herself from the guilt and the complicity.

One day closer to dropping her mask. One day closer to removing the head from the venomous serpent, striking a blow for justice and balance and all the moralities to which she has always clung.

And for some reason, she also feels one step closer to her own neck's turn beneath the blade.

He's smiling at her. She smiles back.

Such an easy thing, to kill a king. They'll go hand-in-hand to the guillotine, just like they've done in every other aspect of this twisted tale.

She can't deny the striking sense of irony in that image. It's beautiful, balanced… _just_. Her moral compass has always been a strong thing, and it says that this is how it must be, after all. Despite the fact that she will use her cunning for the greatest possible good, she has to still admit that there's blood and dirt on her hands as well.

Her only fear is losing the chance before she can actually end it all. It isn't about absolution; it's about balance. Though she knows that in the end, the world will always find a way to balance itself—death to all tyrants, that sort of thing.

When she makes her way back down the hall, she asks herself the same question she'd asked before—how many more times, how much longer?

She still doesn't know, and she doesn't have time to think about it. She has calls to make, messages to send, information to gather, stones to collect.

Such an easy thing, to kill a king. Especially when the stakes come down to kill or be killed.


End file.
